


Deadlines Before Headlines

by spatialsoloist



Series: Bound to Others, Past and Present [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bilbo is taking nobody's shit, M/M, Newspaper Company AU, everything's just cracky okay please, the levels of sass in this one really hits the roof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spatialsoloist/pseuds/spatialsoloist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which nobody cares about the upcoming politics debate that could decide the fate of the world but is obsessing over which celebrity gave which pop star a blowjob in an alleyway, and Bilbo wonders yet again why he chose to be a newspaper editor. Between Fili and Kili’s antics, Bofur and Nori’s troublesome ways of digging up news and Thorin’s constantly rising blood pressure, it’s a miracle they ever get anything done at The Arkenstone Gazette.</p>
<p>Now add the company’s annual Christmas party and an office romance that started out sourer than a lemon into the mix and Bilbo’s sure that it’s going to be a year to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadlines Before Headlines

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a Newspaper Company AU. I’m not going to pretend that I know how a newspaper company works. I spent a lot of time on Google and watching State of Play. Any corrections and criticism is much appreciated! Also, this story is bordering crack and I am so embarrassed I might bury my head into the ground. (Sorry if the characters seem a bit ooc @ v @)
> 
> University is exhausting for me.
> 
> Enjoy!

Tuesdays are the worst days for work.

One would think that Monday would be the bad days, and nobody’s denying that it’s a right stick up the ass, but everybody’s generally sleepy on Mondays so they don’t usually catch the mistakes in the newspaper. There’s always the odd guy in the crowd who seems to go through all their grammatical errors or incorrect dates like a hawk, but they probably won’t live long anyway, because Bilbo overheard Bofur telling Bifur (who’s still in Sunday’s work clothes) that somebody had tweeted about Dwalin’s latest mishap in the politics section and that’s usually a one of the best ways to guarantee violence and pain.

He made a mental note to send someone to thwart his political analyst (although that would also end in blood) because they’re an experienced, professional, qualified newspaper. There were standards and Bilbo _liked_ those standards.

“Mornin’, Bilbo,” Dori yawned, walking in with his camera bag hugged protectively across his chest, like a newborn; the accessories alone probably cost more than an actual baby’s living expenses plus interest.

“Hi,” Bilbo yawned back; it’s a customary greeting. “I think those eye bags have hit an all-time low.”

“I’ve been stalking Sector 7’s senator since three,” Dori sighed, involuntarily rocking backwards and forwards on his heels—always a warning sign.

“Three in the morning? Did you get a tip or something?” Bilbo frowned as he packed away the folders he needed to submit.

“Nope; three in the afternoon starting yesterday, and I didn’t even get any quality photos. I’m pretty sure he caught me staring a few times too, so I might go incognito today. Well, have a good rest of the morning, Bilbo,” and Dori’s off, staggering into the break room in the back for another IV drip of caffeine. Bilbo tucked a pen behind his ear and made off for the other end of the warehouse-like newsroom, leaping over piles and piles of discarded papers, sample documents, and did the limbo under another stray whiteboard hanging around. It’s 7:52 am, and pretty soon the sleeping dragon of doom will waken and all hell would break loose once more.

+

It goes like this: Bilbo is the managing editor. Just _managing editor_ , plain and simple, not ‘Overlord of Hell’, ‘Mister Stickler for Punctuality’, or ‘Asshole-I-can’t-believe-you’re-making-me-work-this-shift-I-fucking-quit’. He’s the editor of all editors, which meant that everybody who lives and breathes and writes report under him and he in turn report under two other people: Thorin and Gandalf.

Gandalf is all right as the head publisher, usually. It’s hard not to like the kindly old gramps except for when he thinks it’s funny to arrange and throw parties right before massive deadlines, so that’s usually the only time Bilbo feels like eviscerating his boss with a spoon.  Thorin, however, is a completely different story.

The mutual hatred between them may or may not have been the result of the New Year’s party last year involving a horse mask, a very possible drunken misunderstanding and the misuse of Bombur’s famous macaroni and chicken liver salad as a weapon, but since then Bilbo’s vowed to never speak to Thorin again so long as he lives, which is kind of difficult when he’s the Editor-in-Chief Bilbo has to report directly to. He didn’t like to dwell on that thought.

From Bilbo’s spot on their family/newspaper tree, it branches off into basic sections: Sports, Entertainment, Politics, and International. Once in a while there’ll be a feature writer, but that’s usually just one of their regular reporters who finally cashed in their overdue vacations but was forced to go wherever they go off to and write a piece on it to be published in the next daily. Some of the most memorable ones included Gloin’s _101 Reasons why Family Reunions involving relatives with life-threatening jobs should be avoided_ , Ori’s _101 Ways to Knit Every Possible Article of Clothing_ , and Oin’s _A Study of Excessively Loud Music in recent times and how to avoid listening to annoying teenage pop songs_.

The only reason why Oin’s article didn’t begin with ‘101’ was because Bilbo threatened to burn down the building if he didn’t come up with a better title in the next three seconds. Seriously, they were reporters with varying degrees and masters in journalism, world issues, psychology, and ways to maximize coffee intake in 24-hours, and they had to start a piece with something like that? Standards, Bilbo reminded himself and his writers. They have _standards_.

Thorin stormed in at quarter past eight, spotless as always in his jet-black Armani suit, silver silk tie and polished designer shoes with his long hair combed back. While most people in the office were usually stuck wearing the same thing for an entire week, or were like Bilbo and had long since resigned to their fate and were more than often decked out in their old college sweats, Thorin was never a sight for sore eyes.

He overdressed because he felt like it, stood out like a diamond amidst chunks of crumbling gravel, and it grated on Bilbo’s nerves. Thorin still hadn’t accepted the fact that Bilbo had resolved to never communicate with him ever again, although Bilbo had to admit that screaming for him to check the final copies at 2 am from the opposite end of the warehouse hadn’t done much to make that idea in stick. Currently, Thorin had just breezed past him and handed off a cup of blazing hot coffee to him, which Bilbo practically inhaled like a dehydrated man.

Grudges and anger aside, coffee peace offerings were the exception. Coffee was always the exception.

“How come I don’t get coffee?” Kili demanded as he rollerbladed past, arms laden with new prints from Design.

“You aren’t a major driving force that gets this paper published on time,” Thorin retorted, and Kili made a face before zooming off to wake Fili, who’d finally fallen asleep on his laptop.

Thorin’s office wasn’t so much an _office_ ; it was just a really awkward section that hung above the rest of the staff’s workspace. It looked like someone had just cut out a part of an actual office and dangled it over their heads with a lot of wire and high rails as a safety precaution. Bofur wasn’t wrong when he said that the whole concept would be really nice and hipster and all modern architecture-y if they’d bothered to furbish the rest of the warehouse/newsroom/flaming pit of hell properly. There wasn’t even a door to slam; Bilbo had to incorporate a lot of stomping when he left Thorin’s floating office in a rage and it’s not nearly as effective. Plus, it makes dust shake off the underside of the balcony-thing and Thorin’s hanging office is positioned right over the Politics section, which means the dust fell right over Dwalin. It usually resulted in exploding tempers and tears.

“There’s a budget meeting at ten,” Thorin said, hanging his coat up.

“Great,” Bilbo answered, dumping a pile of folders on the desk. “I’m going to have massive, simultaneous cases of uncontrollable diarrhea and constipation at exactly 9:55, and will not be able to attend.”

“Also, I need you to stop Kili and Fili from starting their boxing matches before noon, it’s way too early to come in and have my eardrums damaged by their yells,” Thorin continued as though he hadn’t heard what Bilbo had said, but there was a small smirk on his face that proved he did. “They’re wonderfully enthusiastic, but I’m also sure soccer with the old printer cartilages is stretching the title of sports reporters a little too much.”

“But Radagast driving an actual sleigh into the newsroom last week for the Santa Claus Parade wasn’t?”

“That was for the Santa Claus Parade?” Thorin asked, frowning. “I thought that was what he normally did.”

“Santa Claus Parade’s not until the week after!” Balin called up from one of the desks in the Entertainment section. “Radagast just wanted to get into the spirit early, though using live rabbits probably wasn’t the best choice in terms of sled-pullers.”

“Right,” Bilbo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me animal cruelty protesters did not get involved.”

“Not that I know of,” Balin shrugged, and then went back to his article.

“Well, thanks for the pile of pre-edits and no doubt a shitload of legal papers for me to go through,” Thorin said to Bilbo, much too laid-back for a man who was going to end up staying up for the next forty-eight hours reading terms and conditions in size 6 Arial font. “Now off you go and start prepping our kids for the budget meeting.”

“They’re _not_ my kids,” Bilbo growled, finishing the last of the coffee. “I refuse to partake in your dysfunctional family scenario with those twats as my co-workers!”

“We love you too Bilbo,” Ori called sadly up from his desk while he watched the late breaking news in Hong Kong on Youtube. Bilbo glared down without remorse; there was no privacy in this place at all.

“Get those signed,” he threatened, using his best death glare. Thorin only looked amused as Bilbo spun on his heel and stomped down the stairs again, cursing everything into obviation.

When it came to preparation for meetings, Bilbo no longer bothered to do anything. Either somebody would be late or absent or forget to print something off last minute, which proceed to everybody losing their shit entirely. Then there would be sheer bloody panic, which usually involved spilled coffee and the awkward ‘let-me-borrow-your-spare-pants-for-the-day’ situation. Honestly, they’d exchanged pieces of clothing with each other out of confusion so often it was hardly surprising to see Ori wearing one of Dwalin’s heavy metal band shirts anymore.

Two hours later, Bilbo walked into the meeting room to see Dori in a screaming match with Dwalin over whether photography or politics got the next cut. Ori was watching the news about India on his phone while jotting down notes that would most likely be ruined by a spilled t drink in the next ten minutes. Nori had his feet up on the table and was, as usual, spewing out random celebrity encounters and Fili was talking about featuring Turkish wrestling in their next segment, _why_? In the midst of it all, Thorin was seated at the head of the table, fingers laced together on the table as a tape recorder flew through the air and knocked one their framed awards off the wall, a vein twitching in his temple.

“How’s the diarrhea and constipation, Bilbo?” Thorin calls over the noise, and it’s a sign of how far the paper’s standards have gone south when nobody even looks up at the possibility of a severe plumbing malfunction.

+

The _Arkenstone Gazette_ has been around for quite some time. From what Bilbo vaguely recalled it began as a lowly, garage-office, self-printing neighborhood business that soon extended itself into town, city, and then, the whole east coast. Throughout the years there’s been plenty of time for the newspaper to rise and shine and crash and burn, which it did spectacularly at in both categories. Bilbo suspected that’s partly why it became so popular; the _Gazette_ was stupid enough to make kindergarten-level mistakes and yet still managed to cover the late-breaking stories in ten times more depth than any other paper in the city. People loved talking smack about it but they’d still obsessively follow each article day after day in homes, coffee shops, or in the subway. Customers were loyal. Like dogs. Except Bilbo would never say that out loud, and it’s also partly the reason why he doesn’t have a twitter account. Trust his drunken ‘wind-down’ moments to take a wrong dive and it could be a whole new record. Thorin would actually go into cardiac arrest.

On another note, it should probably be mentioned that the founder of the _Arkenstone Gazette_ , Thror Durinson, was in fact Thorin’s grandfather, and one of the most predominant moments in the newspaper’s history was when Smaug Dracoclaw, the rich heir and asshole extraordinaire brought out the _Gazette_ when Thror almost went bankrupt. Apparently the blow to Thror’s pride and the loss of his beloved newspaper had sent the man to an early grave and eventually made Thorin’s father, Thrain, abandon his children. Thorin had worked his way up from the bottom and fought tooth and nail to gain control over the _Gazette_ , which he finally achieved with a bit of help from Gandalf and his own hard work.

So, in a way, the _Arkenstone Gazette_ was more precious to Thorin than anything else in the world.

And while Bilbo could understand why, it didn’t mean he himself would settle for being second to anybody. Perhaps that was why things that could have been never became anything at all.

+

It was nearly eleven at night now, and most of the lesser, unimportant people had gone home while Bilbo, Bofur, Thorin and Dwalin hunched over Thorin’s desk, doing their daily ritual of trashing Photography’s latest shots and deeming which could be used for the front page or the back page or to fill up space because some intern didn’t write enough _again_. It’s a delicate process that requires either a good eye (which none of them have) artistic skills (which Thorin claimed to have) or immunity to bullshit gained from years and years of lawyers and citizens and social rights activists screaming at them about their choice of photos. Ori’s their part-time publicist because he’s the least likely to get angry but not stupid enough to be a pushover. He spoke thirty-two different languages, including Science and Horse-whispering, and often shocked the offending party into submission when they realize he understood their creative name-calling.

“How about this one?” Bofur asked, picking up a picture of two firemen standing by a burning building.

“No,” Bilbo said, frowning at it.

“Why not?”

“The firemen are just standing there; they’re not actually doing anything. That either implies they’re incompetent or they don’t care. Then in waltzes the fire department with complaints about how bad we made them look, like the time after that fiasco with the koala bear getting stuck on the lamp post downtown.”

“I always wondered how it got up there,” Bofur said thoughtfully, tossing the picture into the trashcan.

“Also, I am still adamantly against any photos of firefighters, shirtless or not, since that whole thing with Gandalf and the free pin-up calendars,” Bilbo tacks on helpfully, and a collective shudder goes through everybody in the room.

“This looks alright,” Thorin said slowly, holding up a photo of a street dance crew.

“No,” Bilbo shot back at once. Thorin’s eyebrow went up.

“And, why not, pray tell?”

“One of the guys has a bandana. It’s just screaming biased viewers thirsting for blood and gang activity. Do you want the back door torched again?”

“Fair say,” Thorin grumbled, crunching it up. Dwalin scowled as he swept a pile of images about speed bumps off the table, swearing irritably.

“Hey, Bilbo, how about—”

“No,” Bilbo interrupted.

“You haven’t even seen the photo yet!” Bofur cried. Bilbo looked up skeptically.

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s an ass shot of the politician from Sector 7 when he was talking to that hooker in the red light district.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

“Right,” Bofur said hastily, folding a paper airplane out of it and sent it zooming down into the recycling bin a floor below. Dwalin snickered darkly and shouted for Bifur to pick that up; he was going to include it in his pre-election review.

In the end, they dug the speed bump photos back out of the trash and sent it off to be arranged into tomorrow’s paper alongside the blaring headlines RECENT STUDIES SHOWS NEW DEVELOPMENTS IN SYNTHETICALLY GROWN BLUE ORANGES before admitting that Bilbo might have some ability tied to that inexistent ‘good eye’ they were talking about earlier.

+

The next day, Bilbo thoroughly regretted choosing the speed bump shots because the massive outbreak of complaints about spoof news on their twitter page caused it to crash, someone had come complaining that their foot was in the picture without legal consent, and Radagast thought it’d be funny to come in to work wearing a massive Santa fat suit, trip over a pant leg, and crash into the mail cart.

“Still,” Thorin said conversationally while he talked down two lawyers on speakerphone, threatened five pedestrians and forcibly removed an animal rights protester from their bathroom, “The koala bear fiasco was worse.”

Bilbo had to agree.

+

Bilbo was a graduate of the famous, prestigious, A-listed Rivendell Memorial University with a degree in Journalism and a diploma in Creative Writing. He lost one of his certificates and another is being used as a bookmark at the moment, so nobody except for two people knows what his academic background was, and that was because they went to Rivendell Memorial too. Those people would be Radagast (surprisingly) and Gandalf (unsurprisingly). People have questioned Bilbo’s academic background in the past, but it has always resulted in things mysteriously breaking and said people running screaming from the room. Bilbo likes to smile when he thinks of those memories, because nobody, _nobody_ , fucks with his legacy.

However, being academically smarter than most people notwithstanding, there is honestly nothing Bilbo can do once “politician debate” time rolls around. In a world where nobody cares about the upcoming debate that could decide the fate of the world but is obsessing over which celebrity gave which pop star a blowjob in an alleyway, Bilbo wonders again why he chose this job. His constantly full deposit bin of badly composed articles only fuels his condescension.

Tauriel from Entertainment is his go-to girl for anything complaints, because she’s a movie critic and is already immune to verbal objections, verbal abuse, and verbal criticisms lasting longer than half an hour. She doesn’t even hear whining above a certain pitch anymore.

“I fucking swear,” Bilbo griped, taking a very long drink from his coffee mug. “If I get another article filed with anything regarding blowjobs, frozen peas and a new line of mittens for chickens in its contents I will torch this place.”

“Mhmm,” Tauriel said, fingers flying over her keyboard as she typed the last paragraph about Debate Candidate Saruman Whitestaff’s fourth wife’s sister’s affair with some hotshot movie star. Bilbo threatens to burn the newsroom down every ten minutes. Most of his editors are also immune to it by now.

“Seriously, though, I cannot believe we still have face in the journalism industry. I cannot believe people still buy this shit. I cannot believe why I haven’t gone to jail for homicide yet!”

“Mhmm,” Tauriel said, backspacing her last line.

“I hate my life.”

“Mhmm.”

“I hate my job.”

“Mhmm.”

“I hate Thorin.”

“Mhmm.”

“What am I going to do with this stupid debate coverage?” Bilbo groaned, putting his mug down so he could curl up on the floor next to Tauriel’s desk. “Nobody writes anything properly. Nobody cares about who will lead their country. My goldfish has been dead for three weeks and I keep forgetting to take its body out of the tank.”

“Bilbo,” Balin called as he passed by. “Thorin says Elrond’s on line four for you, something about Thraundruil Woodkin wanting us to put his debate speech on the front page tomorrow morning.”

“Ughandadguh,” Bilbo moaned, pressing the heels of his palms onto his eyeballs until negative images of supernovas threaten to overwhelm him. Great. More debate advertisement bullshit.

“I’ll tell him you’ll be up in a minute,” Balin said smartly, vanishing. Tauriel backspaced several more lines and reached into her cabinet. A second later, a bottle of forty-year old scotch appears and she poured one-third of it into Bilbo’s coffee for him.

Bilbo knew there was a reason why Tauriel was his go-to girl.

+

“I can’t work late for the whole of next week,” Fili said, rollerblading to Bilbo’s desk. Bilbo doesn’t look up as he carefully ran the blade of the exacto knife over the printout for positioning. Something’s off about the five-inch spread on illegal bear hunting in Saskatchewan and it’s giving him a migraine.

“Sure, you can take the next week off when you hand in your piece on the Taiwan black market scandal,” Bilbo mumbled, not really listening.

“It’s my mom’s birthday,” Fili complained, not even bothering to tell Bilbo that he doesn’t write for International. “Kili gets the week after off.”

“It’s not my fault your brother got divorced.”

“Kili’s been single for two years. Can I _please_ cash in my vacation?”

“When happens when Venus appears if you’re a Scorpio again?” Bilbo asked, frowning as he moved the ruler further down the page. Sometimes it’s a wonder they get anything done with the awful levels of employee-to-employee communication around here.

“Oh no!” Ori wailed, suddenly leaping up from his chair. “My laptop’s down to three minutes and I can’t find my charger!”

A collective gasp of horror echoed throughout the warehouse before Fili whipped around and bellowed, “KILI! PITCH TOWARDS YOUR THREE O’ CLOCK!”

Kili leapt up, grabbed a tangle of wires and charger lying on top of his desk, wound back, and chucked it across the room where it smashed into Ori’s face. Bilbo massaged his ringing ears as Dwalin yelled something rude and chased Kili out of the newsroom. To Fili, he said, “Go take it up with Thorin or somebody else. I’m busy.”

A phone chirps and Fili suddenly said, “Crap, sorry, talk to you later, Laketown just won their last game and I have to catch an interview!” and he’s gone, skating back to his desk while he shouted something undistinguishable at his missing brother. Bilbo enjoyed about ten minutes of lovely silence before another shadow fell over his desk again.

“You know that your charming cold-heartedness with your colleagues are doing nothing other than fueling your nickname as Overlord of Hell here,” Thorin said, a hand on the back of Bilbo’s chair and the other on his table, next to his work. Bilbo has seen Thorin throw darts and play the piano with those hands before. It kind of makes him want to stab his exacto knife through his boss’ palm and then kiss everything better.

“Is that supposed to be news?” Bilbo asked, making another slit through the paper. “I’ve worked here for seven years, Thorin, nothing is surprising when you get to know everything a day before everybody else does. Literally.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Thorin smirked, drumming his fingers.

“Life has lost its novelty. I am devoid of emotions. People with legal power scream at me every day and I reply with slurs about their mothers despite the fact that they can probably put me in jail. Also, I do not care.”

“Now, now,” Thorin interjected, taking a seat on Bilbo’s desk. _Get your arse of my desk_ is what Bilbo wants to say, but it comes out in some kind of muffled gurgling noise that Thorin helpfully ignores. “When did you become so mean?”

“When I grew up, idiot,” Bilbo muttered in reply, reaching for his gluestick. He’s rudely interrupted when Thorin’s hand catches his midway and holds it there, still. There’s a moment of very, very tense silence.

“What?” Bilbo asked, his voice only slightly strangled, and mentally congratulates himself for mostly not showing how apprehensive he feels. He is not having feels. Not here in the office. Not with Thorin.

“You are seriously the most stubborn man I have ever met in my life,” Thorin said blandly, tracing his thumb over Bilbo’s pulse point. Bilbo suppresses a shiver and withdraws his hand quickly. Thorin lets him go.

“I am not. I’m just highly resilient to bullshit.”

“Hmm,” Thorin said thoughtfully, drumming his fingers again. Then, he said: “How’s the article coming along?”

If Bilbo were to be honest with himself, he’d probably seen this predictable turn in conversation coming from a mile away. It was game he and Thorin liked to play: how close can you get to sensitive subjects before turning tail and talking about work?

Bilbo shrugged nonchalantly and jabbed the gluestick over his cut-up pieces of paper. “Almost done. Anything else you want to bother me with?”

Thorin laughed, loosening his tie slightly. “No, I don’t have anything else. Why don’t you take this afternoon off and go home early?”

Bilbo snorted loudly. “You know when the last time I was home, at my flat? Five days ago. You know when the last time I was _home_ home, back to the Shire, to visit my cousins and my nephew? Five fucking _months_ ago. If you honestly have nothing better to do other than sitting on my desk and bothering me, go buy me more toothpaste from the drug store. The tube in the men’s room is almost out and I know I’ll be pulling an all-night here.”

“Hmm,” Thorin said again, and to Bilbo’s surprise, he got up, dusting imaginary dust off his pants. “We’ll talk later then,” and he was off, hands tucked in his pockets. Bilbo’s not watching how nice Thorin’s ass is in his custom-tailored pants. Nope.

He leaned back in his squeaky chair and surveyed his work even though his head was running five billion miles an hour. There’s something about Thorin that he forgot to mention, in relation to the unspeakable New Year’s staff party last year. From what one has seen so far, it may be easy to assume Thorin’s an ex of Bilbo’s. Bilbo won’t deny that their actions are that of a flirtatious, estranged, and highly irritable couple, but Thorin’s not Bilbo’s ex.

They didn’t even get to date each other before realizing that they wouldn’t last as an item.

It was the most depressing thing Bilbo had ever experienced in his life.

+

“Yeah, but he’s the Joker,” Nori said, typing furiously away on his laptop. His spikey hair was scrunched up and tied back on the top of his head, and it looked like a palm tree. “He’s a master of manipulation and tricks. He’s got nothing to lose, unlike Batman.”

“The Joker can’t even take Batman on in a fair fight,” Bofur replied calmly and slurped noodles out of his Styrofoam bowl. “He’s one guy who relies on little tricks to win. Head on, Batman will own him.”

“Wonder Woman will kick all their arses,” Ori muttered from behind a pile of papers, watching the late breaking news from Brazil on his computer.

“I’ll kick _your_ arses if your work is not submitted to me in the next five minutes,” Bilbo threatened, clicking away at nothing on his screen. His drop box is currently empty, but once people start piling their edits in he’ll have to go through all of them. It’s 1 am and he’s really not in the mood to stay up any longer than it is necessary to go through three articles and rain hell down on their god-awful, sleep-deprived work. Another hush falls over the newsroom, which is immensely satisfying even though Nori’s only quiet because he finally hit his limit and faceplanted into his desk, fast asleep.

“Here you go, Bilbo, the last of the Entertainment articles,” Balin said kindly, walking over to slide his papers into Tsuna’s drop box.

“Thank you, Balin,” Bilbo sighed, abandoning his mouse and grabbing his highlighters. “Are you heading home now?”

“I think I will,” Balin smiled. “I think I should get dinner first, though.”

There’s only one diner that’s open twenty-four hours, called _Three Trolls_ , and the last time Bilbo ate there he got heartburn and a rather intense build-up of gas. It’s the best thing ever. He took a long drink of coffee and laments the loss of good food to correcting bullshit articles.

“By the way, Bilbo,” Balin said suddenly. “I overheard Thorin telling Gandalf that he wants you to become the section head for the debate coverage, is that correct?”

Upon hearing Balin’s words, Bilbo does not spit out his mouthful of coffee onto all his edits. He literally _spews_ it out like a fountain.

“Thorin wants me to _what_? Lead the debate coverage? Is he stupid? Does he not know how much work I already have under my belt? Is he stupid? Why on earth would he choose me?”

“You’re our invincible editor,” Bofur said, like it’s the most obvious thing on Earth. It is, but that’s not the point.

“You’ve worked here longer than all of us,” Balin offered. “I honestly think Gandalf and Thorin are the only ones who’ve worked here longer than you have.”

“You’re a good guy, Bilbo,” Ori added with a big grin.

“Aren’t you dating Thorin too?” Nori asked, choosing that unfortunate moment to wake up again and rejoin the conversation. The glare Bilbo leveled him could freeze lava.

“Nobody. Is. Dating. Anybody. Here,” Bilbo snarled, curling his hands into fists and accidentally crunched up Balin’s ruined article. “Go the fuck back to work or so help me god, I’ll cut out your kidneys and sell them to the black market and take an early retirement!”

The newsroom stays quiet for a long time after that. Balin bids him a goodnight and went to grab his coat. Bofur finished his noodles and tossed out his bowl before leaning back into work. Nori’s nose is literally glued to his computer screen. Ori plugs his headphones in, yawning widely while he takes notes. Bilbo flared his nostrils and looked down at the coffee-stained paper, feeling another oncoming headache. _I need a walk_ , he thought morosely, and gets up to do just that.

When he wanders into the men’s room to brush his teeth for lack of other things to do, he finds a fresh tube of toothpaste sitting on the top shelf, ready for him to use.

+

The first time Bilbo met Thorin was during his internship at the _Arkenstone Gazette_ with his friends and fellow writers, Drogo and Falco. Thorin was the managing editor in training at the time, but he even back then he was as stern and brooding as ever (sans a few silver streaks in his long hair). He’d nodded politely when Gandalf introduced the interns and voilà, life moved on. That had been nine years ago, as in a year before Bilbo finished University and a year before Thorin had been promoted to a full time editor.

Two years later, Drogo terminated his internship to get married to the lovely Primula, Falco decided that joining the Ivy League Rugby team was the career of his dreams, and Bilbo secured a full time job with ease. Working under Thorin had been fun back then, because as the editor-in-chief and the managing editor meant that they were always bouncing ideas off each other, no matter how ridiculous they were. They could grab greasy take-out after hours together like university students again, scream at interns and get wasted after a particularly tedious coverage— the Beijing Olympics had resulted in the most spectacular hangover ever and Bilbo is still violently denying ever pole-dancing to a particularity raunchy Britney Spears song.

But as the years went by, mainstream media started taking blows to its continuity. Bilbo saw the rise in technology and the people abandoning the papers in favour of online news, twitter, facebook, or other forms of technology. The economy hit a rut another year in, and soon, Thorin was faced with more budget issues and competitors. Their time together became less and less until Bilbo started to wonder whether or not it had all been just a memory. When Thorin’s happy-go-lucky nephews became the new additions to the Sports section, the man was determined to set an example for them.

Thorin’s job took over, and this time, there was a lot more at stake. The _Arkenstone Gazette_ had become not only Thorin’s but also Fili and Kili’s livelihoods as well. If the paper were to go bankrupt a second time, there would be no one to save it, and Bilbo knew that Thorin would rather die than see his grandfather’s legacy plummet to the ground.

Looking back now, Bilbo wished he’d been a little more sensitive about the subject, but to be fair, tension was high and Thorin himself hadn’t exactly been a perfect example at dealing with tact. So, when the issue was presented to them, the sleeping dragon finally reared its ugly head and everything was ruined.

+

“Alright,” Bilbo snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shut up everybody, this is how it’s going to work. Debate night is on the 24th. That means, on the night of the 23rd , which is a Wednesday—mark your calendars guys, I’m not repeating this again—we’re going to have a total lockdown. Nobody goes in or out until six am the day after, you hear me? We’ll have to be on standby until one in the morning because this thing is the event of the decade. In the meantime I want no less than a dozen people on the newsroom’s main line and someone on the twitter feed. Pack you gear, because you’re not leaving until the paper’s been delivered.”

“But… Bilbo?” Bofur asked, sticking his hand up with a hesitant smile.

“…Yes?” Bilbo asks slowly, turning in Bofur’s direction. Everybody in the room visibly wilts.

“It’s just, err, you know, December. December 24th,” Bofur said weakly. “You know, it’s almost time for Christmas?”

“So?” Bilbo replied, twiddling his thumbs. Grinning like a deranged serial killer was probably not the best way to end his slightly-threatening speech, but Bilbo had been operating on about two hours of sleep the entire week and he was running out of shits to give. His team shuddered as one before they dispersed, rolling on their wheelie chairs back to their cramped desks covered with papers, old takeout boxes, and tears of true frustration.

The word _debate_ is something of a hated word at the _Gazette_ because it’s hard not to detest it. It means a ton of preparations, weeks of sleepless nights, and lack of food intake due to overwork. But generally, it’s simply the vast amount of stuff to keep track of that gets to everybody—you can only go through so many letters in the _Dear Gloin_ column and attend so many press conferences before everything just becomes overwhelming. Bilbo has seen two debates in his time: the first time was his years as a naïve intern, and it was spent woefully carding through 50+ tabs on his browser to keep up with everything electronically updated, and the second time involved him passing out under Thorin’s desk cradling a bottle of Russian vodka. What’s not to love?

He’s abruptly brought back to the present when Gandalf walks in amidst the sad, holiday-deprived faces and announced to the room at large, “What do you guys think of a Christmas party the day after the debate coverage?”

“What?” Bilbo spluttered.

“Christmas?” Bofur perked up hopefully.

“Party?” Ori asked, smiling.

“ _What_?” Bilbo repeated, aghast.

“Sounds like a plan,” Gandalf said brightly, to general applause. “I’ll do the honors and bring the wine while Bilbo and Thorin plan out the food, what say you lot?”

Bilbo, of course, had plenty to say about that. Thing was, though, nobody could hear him over the high-pitched cheering of his fellow co-workers. Taking two deep breaths and feeling the after effects of no sleep and utter shock, Bilbo saw the world spin as he promptly keeled over and fainted dead away.

When he came to, his head was in Thorin’s lap, Balin was fanning him with a flyer and Gandalf looked positively exasperated.

“Really, Bilbo Baggins, if you’re going to fall over like that right before the political debate I’d rather you take your vacation time and head off to relax. I do believe you’ve got about a month’s worth of days collected by now, heavens knows why you don’t spend it sooner,” Gandalf chided, arms crossed over his grey suit.

“I’m a major driving force that gets this paper published on time,” Bilbo mumbled, and he swore he saw Thorin’s tense frown soften at the edges.

“Take the rest of the day off,” Balin suggested kindly. “I’ll take over for now. Thorin will drive you home, right, Thorin?”

“No,” Bilbo said the same time Thorin said, “Of course, ” and then they glared at each other.

“Goodness me, Bilbo, Thorin will drive you home and you still stay at home until eight o’clock tomorrow morning. If you try to walk in a second before eight I will tie you to the bike racks outside of the building until office hours start, do you understand?” Gandalf demanded.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bilbo muttered, sitting up. Thorin’s hands hovered uncertainly by his side. “I’ll just get my stuff from the staff room, alright?”

“Alright,” Thorin said rather unhappily, and Bilbo drifted off towards the room in the back. The staff room looked suspiciously like a jail cell, but then again, the building had been a prison until the late 80’s— it certainly felt like a jail on the busiest day at the office.

It wasn’t until he pushed open the door that Bilbo realized that all of his writers were cramped in the small room, talking in hushed voices. He opened his mouth to demand what they were all doing until he heard his own name and stopped.

“—Bilbo? Really? Thorin and Bilbo?”

“I’m telling you, Ori, there’s still something between them,” Kili was saying matter-of-factly. “Did you see how white Uncle went when Bilbo fainted? That’s love, bitch!” and then he high-fived Fili. Bilbo felt like high-fiving their faces with a chair.

“They’re not together,” Bombur said. “Bilbo hates Thorin.”

“Well, they’ve obviously got history together, don’t they?” Kili argued. “But it’s more complicated than that.”

In the back, Dwalin snorted as Ori huffed in frustration. “What kind of history?”

“Oooh, I’m not sure you want to go there, laddie,” Bofur said. “Just be glad you never witnessed the great fight of New Year’s Party in 2012.”

Bilbo felt his stomach drop.

“What happened at the party?”

“There was the horse mask,” Nori snickered.

“Oh yeah, that thing. Didn’t Thorin make Fili burn it?”

“I burned it good and proper,” Fili said solemnly. “The loading dock stunk of bad rubber for weeks.”

“ _What_ _happened at the party_?”

“So we’ve all been thinking that Thorin and Bilbo were an item right?” Bofur said, twirling his moustache. “And they’ve been two peas in a pod since Bilbo started working here. Thorin actually _smiled_ , can you believe that? And we were practically waiting for the day they’d tell us they were an item so we could shout that we already knew, but…”

“But?”

“The New Year’s party,” Bombur said sadly. “It ruined everything.”

“It was Radagast’s idea to go dressed as animals,” Bofur explained. “Gandalf brought some really excellent wine and we were all kind of indulging ourselves on it when Bilbo burst into the office, frantic that nobody had been answering the phone. Apparently there’d been some major homicide case involving that gang, the Goblins, and it needed big coverage. He walked in on us partying and he got mad.”

“And then Kili and Fili saw that he wasn’t wearing an animal mask and yanked a horse mask over his head,” Nori tacked on, and Fili and Kili looked away sheepishly. Dwalin rolled his eyes.

“Bilbo wasn’t happy, of course. What made it worse though was that Thorin laughed. He’d been drinking and obviously was a bit gone by then, but Bilbo got very mad. They got into an argument.”

Bilbo swallowed, his throat tight. He could still remember everything that had gone down that night, even though he desperately wished he didn’t.

_“What are you doing? Don’t you see that there are more important things to do than drink and party?”_

_“Bilbo—”_

_“Don’t ‘Bilbo’ me, Thorin Durinson! You’re the one who acts like they need to live and breathe this newspaper 24/7, but why am I the only one working towards anything that would benefit the paper?”_

_“For god’s sake Bilbo, you just got here—”_

_“I called eight times! Surely somebody would’ve heard the phone, or at least noticed the gang shooting on the telly, but no, you’re all too drunk to notice—”_

_“I’m not drunk,” Thorin had growled, drawing himself up to his full height._

_“Then get off your arse and do some work! We can’t lose a story again!”_

_“What do you mean again? The Gazette has been covering all the news!”_

_“Really?” Bilbo had snarled. “What about that break in at Dol Guldur Companies? The Princes of Manwë visiting the city? Are you telling me we didn’t lose those stories to other publishers too?”_

_“We covered those well enough—”_

_“No we didn’t!” Bilbo had cried a little hysterically. “You say you want the best for this newspaper, that you’d sacrifice everything to keep it going, but you’re not even trying!”_

_“Going by the way you’re acting so childishly right now, maybe it wasn’t that much of a sacrifice after all!” Thorin had shouted, and the room went quiet. Bilbo remembered his jaw dropping, his insides vanishing and being replaced with something as cold as the snow outside, and Thorin looked horrified at himself._

_“Bilbo, I—”_

“And that was when Bilbo picked up Bombur’s jumbo party platter of macaroni and chicken liver salad, screamed like a banshee, and threw it at Thorin,” Bofur finished dramatically. “It was scary.”

“It was very scary,” Kili mumbled. “The platter was bigger than he was.”

“We were on our best behavior for a month afterwards,” Fili added.

“This is terrible,” Ori whispered, looking stunned. “H-have they forgiven each other?”

Dwalin barked out a laugh. “If you don’t think for one moment that Thorin doesn’t regret those words he said that night then I’ll cut my beard. You haven’t listened to him mope and pine over that incident every time we grab a pint.”

“But if Thorin tells Bilbo—”

“I doubt they’ll ever go beyond anything they are now,” Bofur sighed.

“After we’d gotten a betting pool started too,” Nori mumbled, and Dwalin smacked him on the back of his head.

“Thorin basically said he didn’t care that he’d have to give up what he had with Bilbo for his job that night, and even though he was a bit drunk, it was… harsh.” Fili said despondently.

“It took another three months before they would even look each other in the eye.” Kili added sadly. “There’s no hope.”

Bilbo had heard enough. Closing the door quietly behind him, he turned on his heel and strolled quickly back into the newsroom. Gandalf and Balin were going over some edits in the corner, but Thorin was pacing between the spaces of the desks. He looked up when Bilbo walked back into the room.

“Where are your things?” he asked, confused.

“I need to go,” Bilbo said instead, and before Thorin or anybody else could stop him, he ran out of the newsroom.

+

Bilbo ended up taking his vacation. He’d deliberately left a voicemail to Thorin when he knew the man wouldn’t be at his phone so he wouldn’t have to get into a verbal argument. Taking a two-day break right before the political debate probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but Bilbo was tired of putting work first. In fact, putting work before him was the reason why he’s stuck in this awkward post-argument limbo with Thorin in the first place! Back in his apartment, he packed an overnight bag, brought a ticket and hopped onto a train bound for his old home in the Shire.

Drogo and his wife, Primula, and their five-year-old son, Frodo Baggins, were currently occupying Bag End. The entire family was startled to see Bilbo show up unannounced on their doorstep so late but welcomed him in quite warmly nonetheless. Frodo squealed when Bilbo hastily revealed some sweets he’d brought at the station as a gift and Primula tutted about how thin he’d gotten. Drogo slapped Bilbo on the back, beaming.

“Long time no see, cousin! Still working for that newspaper, are you?”

“About that,” Bilbo said, smiling wryly. “You wouldn’t happen to have my old university things still in storage, would you?”

Drogo raised an eyebrow, but he grinned and jerked his head towards one of the back rooms. “This way then, cousin dear. We’ll see what I’ve still got.”

It took the better half of evening for Bilbo to sort through a lot of his old things. Term papers, assignments, old textbooks and loose notes were all dumped unceremoniously aside as Bilbo pilfered through four years’ worth of homework.

“What on earth are you looking for, Bilbo?” Primula asked when she came around at midnight after tucking a troublesome Frodo into bed.

“Something really important,” Bilbo muttered. “Oh, wait… here it is!” he said excitedly when he moved a folder to reveal the prize. Primula blinked, confused.

“Well… what are you planning to do with that?”

Bilbo paused to think for a moment, sitting back on his heels as he stared at the small bundle in his hands. He thought back to a happier Thorin, a stressed out Thorin forced to take on more than he should, and then to what Dwalin had said, about Thorin regretting what he’d said a year ago.

After a moment, Bilbo said, “I’m going to make things right.”

+

Two days later, when Bilbo burst into the newsroom after sprinting all the way from the bus stop (he really needed to get back to the gym), he was greeted to the sight of the news team in complete disarray.

Fili and Kili were desperately trying to un-jam the printer, looking more panicked by the second. Bofur pushing several boxes’ worth of edits down the walkway at breakneck speeds, nearly running Nori over as he barreled around the corner. Dwalin was shouting for somebody to keep track of the twitter and facebook accounts and Ori was trying to help Bombur and Bifur set up a live feed for the debate. Thorin stood in the middle of the chaos with a clipboard and pen in hand, bellowing something about photocopying. His long, wavy hair was tied up in a loose ponytail. Bilbo hadn’t seen him do that since Thorin was the manager editor-in-training. It made him look years younger.

“Well well well,” a voice said from behind Bilbo, and Gandalf strolled leisurely over. “I must say that I’m rather glad you’re back, Bilbo.”

“Yeah,” Bilbo said softly, watching Fili accidentally rip open the wrong side of the printer. “I better do something about this.”

“I wouldn’t stop you,” Gandalf said cheerfully, and Bilbo placed two fingers into his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle. Surprised silence fell over everybody. Thorin managed to find his voice first.

“Bilbo,” he breathed. “Y-you’re back?”

“You lot are impossible,” Bilbo said matter-of-factly. “I leave for two days and you all turn into a blubbering mess.”

Apparently his arrival was the equivalent to the second coming of Christ in this company, because a second later the newsroom erupted in cheers, screams, and several yells of “Praise the Lord!” Bilbo found himself swamped by Fili and Kili and Ori, who all seemed determined to hug him to death, but it was Thorin he was looking at. The editor had all but sagged in relief, a weak smile on his face. Bilbo failed to hide his own grin rather pathetically.

“All right, all right!” he yelled, untangling himself when Bofur and Nori tried to lift him onto their shoulders. “We have a debate to cover! Fili, Kili, leave the printer, I’ll take care of that. I want you guys to take over the twitter and facebook page instead. Dwalin, you’re in charge of setting up the live feed now. Ori, Bofur, Nori, I want you three on the phone with in-parliament reps ASAP. We don’t have any time to waste!”

Everybody scrambled to comply, and Bilbo tossed his coat over a chair. Thorin took that opportunity to walk up to him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he said, “And what would you have me do, Bilbo?”

The small bundle in Bilbo’s pocket seemed to weigh a ton as he jerked his head towards the printed. “You’re in charge of tackling that wretched printer with me right now.”

“Twelve years in the newspaper business and the first thing you ask me to do is fix a damn printer,” Thorin chuckled as he rolled up his sleeves.

“Am I hearing a complaint?”

“Of course not.”

“Good,” Bilbo said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get to work.”

+

It was, in the end, their most successful political debate coverage yet.

+

The Christmas party was launched several hours earlier than intended to, but perhaps it was the relief that the coverage was _finally fucking over_ that had everybody in lighter spirits and in desperation for more alcohol than ever. Bombur had been secretly cooking again, and the minute Bilbo had climbed over the rails of Thorin’s dangling office to shout, “Ladies and Gentlemen, _that is a wrap!_ ” he’d busted out all of his dishes for the party. What a relief it was too, seeing that everybody had been too busy to eat for the past forty-eight hours. The macaroni and chicken liver salad, however, was mysteriously absent.

The festivities had gone on long throughout the night, though around 2 am on Christmas day Bilbo finally managed to stagger out into the loading dock for a breath of fresh air. Patting his stuffed belly, he leaned against the wall and watched as his breath rose in small puffs and vanished into the cold night air. There was a shriek and the sound of something splintering back in the newsroom, but outside, it was peaceful and quiet, mainly because nobody was insane enough to stay up so late like they were.

The creaking of the back door alerted Bilbo that he had company and he looked up to see Thorin walking outside as well.

“Aren’t you cold?” Thorin asked.

“Not really. It’s rather refreshing, I must say.”

Thorin chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound in his throat. He dug through his back pocket to reveal a crumpled box of cigarettes, and Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you quit?”

“Tonight calls for a celebration,” Thorin shrugged. “But, er, don’t tell Fili and Kili?”

“Not a word,” Bilbo smirked, and watched as Thorin lit up and took a long drag. A moment later, the smoke he exhaled mingled with Bilbo’s in the inky darkness.

“You don’t know how relieved I was that you came back,” Thorin said quietly, and Bilbo looked up, surprised. Thorin caught his expression and flushed a little, taking another drag.

“I mean— well. None of us knew why you left and you left nothing but a rather cryptic voicemail on my phone and the debate was right around the corner and nobody was prepared and Gandalf kept claiming he had no idea where you’d have gone—” Thorin took a breath, and then paused, sheepish. “Well, it was worrying.”

“I’m really starting to think that I’m the only reason the paper gets published every morning,” Bilbo chortled.

“You are,” Thorin said, serious.

“And you don’t give yourself enough credit,” Bilbo shot back. Thorin scoffed.

“It’s not like I had much control over the situation yesterday night, unfortunately. For somebody who supposedly owns and runs this paper I was useless.”

“No, you’re not,” Bilbo snapped fiercely. “Do you know what you do, Thorin? You handle our legal disputes. You handle the finances. You handle all the harassment, claims, final copies and advertisement of the _Gazette_. You hired me because you knew I could handle things in the newsroom, and it’s my job to do so, not you. You picked Fili and Kili because they run on pure energy, Dwalin and Balin because they knows their stuff, Dori, Nori and Ori because they’re hardworkers, Oin and Gloin because they have initiative, and Bifur, Bofur and Bombur because they’re creative. You picked each and every one of us because to be on this team because you know what quality looks like, and you trust each and every one of us to be able to deliver. Don’t you dare sell yourself short, Thorin Durinson.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo, his mouth slightly open. After a second, he said, “Is that truly how you think of me?”

And Bilbo already had the perfect answer to that. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the small bundle he’d retrieved from Drogo’s and handed it wordlessly to Thorin. Bemused, the taller man took it.

“These are… newspaper clippings?”

“Newspaper clippings of you,” Bilbo clarified with a small cough. “Before you won back the newspaper company from Smaug.”

Thorin loosened the string tying the papers together and flipped through each one, eyes wide.

“I was in high school back then, and you were in the news. They said that you were trying to take the company back. I remembered that my parents used to read the _Arkenstone Gazette_ , but they stopped after a while, because they said it became a bad newspaper. I saved these clippings about you because, well, I’d never seen anybody fight so hard for what they wanted. You inspired me. So when I had to pick a placed to work at in university, I chose your paper. And, well, you know the rest,” Bilbo finished off, blushing. “What I’m trying to say is, you’ve done more than enough for this company and for all of us. You can keep on trusting us to do this job right.”

Thorin was quiet after Bilbo’s rant. One of the things Bilbo often noticed was how expressive Thorin could be at times. Usually he was Mister Dark and Brooding, but if you could coax it out of him, the man’s smile could melt ice caps.

“That New Year’s party a year ago—”

“Don’t,” Bilbo sighed. “It was— _I_ was— out of line.”

“No,” Thorin said firmly. “I was drunk, but I had no excuse to lash out at you like that.”

“Thorin—”

“Let me finish,” Thorin said softly. “It wasn’t fair of me to upend my temper on you, and you don’t know how badly feel about it to this day. There isn’t a moment where I wish I hadn’t said those words and ruined everything between us.”

“We’re not ruined,” Bilbo said quickly, grabbing Thorin’s hand. “I was mad, at first, but I’m never really one to hold grudges, you know? They’re tiring. But I’d didn’t want to hold you back from all the duties you have with the paper.”

“Can you forgive me?” Thorin whispered, fingers squeezing Bilbo’s. “I want to stay with you, Bilbo, really. I want to start again, but this time, without the newspaper coming between us.”

Bilbo smiled and leaned in, gently bumping his forehead against Thorin’s. “Then let’s not make it something between us. Let’s take care of the paper together.”

Thorin, sneaky bastard that he is, breaks out into a brilliant smile and the next thing Bilbo knows they’re kissing, soft and sweet as he slid his arms around Thorin’s neck and Thorin dropped his forgotten cigarette and wrapped his arms tightly around Bilbo’s waist, pulling the shorter man closer. The familiar scent and the feeling of joy was a bubbling ball of warmth in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach and he nearly giggled into the kiss. A rumbling feeling told him that Thorin was trying to muffle as laugh as well. As the two of them remained lip-locked in the cold outdoors, the first hints of snowflakes started to fall silently and Bilbo curled his fingers into Thorin's hair, pulling the him even closer so that their tongues tangled. In the rare, peacefully early hours of Christmas morning, Bilbo had to admit: everything was _perfect_.

+

Tuesdays are the worst days for work.

The writers are furiously typing away on their laptops, designers are cradling their tablets protectively as they cropped layouts desperately, all eight lines on Gandalf’s phone have been ringing non-stop for the past half hour and yet another reader had found something to complain about at arse o’clock in the morning.

Fortunately, Thorin was already smoothly conversing with ~~threatening~~ the lawyers on three separate mobile phones and Bilbo has an editing rate of eleven documents per minute. They're a team now, for better or worse, regardless of how many times Nori gets into trouble for sneaking into press conferences, and how often Dwalin keeps beating the guy who tweets about his aritcles; it's all simply part of the business.

It looks like they’ll make this deadline after all.

* * *

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick notes about this story:
> 
> My ex used to work at Five Guys (the burger joint), hence where Three Troll’s comes into play. I like to pretend I’m smart at naming things.
> 
> Ori wasn’t working for the Arkenstone Gazette when the New Year’s Party of 2012 happened. I needed some way to explain what happened, hah.
> 
> I know I didn’t include the elves and the wizards so much in this story, sorry! Bilbo and Thorin demanded all my attention.
> 
> This one ended up a bit longer than I expected, but I hope you guys liked it! I love how I'm writing fics instead of doing schoolwork, guh. Thank you for reading!


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